


the upside of open windows

by oh_no_oh_dear



Series: tungle dot hell [13]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Animals, Cats, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Kittens, M/M, Pets, The fluffiest fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 17:05:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11445243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_no_oh_dear/pseuds/oh_no_oh_dear
Summary: Prompt:  “Your choice of samsteve, sambucky or all caps and adopting! A kitty cat!”





	the upside of open windows

**Author's Note:**

> This prompt is literally months old, but I’m going through every single prompt (except “green zucchini” because FUCK THAT.) The upside of me taking ages to do prompts? People forget all about them and they’re like fun surprise gifts!! Or something!

  
Their apartment made magazine spreads look like a joke.  
  
True, everything was second-hand, because Steve was  ~~cheap~~  against being wasteful; and there were several huge bookshelves groaning under the strain of Sam and Bucky’s books; and the kitchen had a truly baffling number of wooden cutting boards, wooden spoons, wooden cups-- because Bucky had a thing for hand-made wooden utensils; and they’d had to change from light to dark decor after Steve’s paint spatters and charcoal smudges made Bucky pitch a fit; and Sam had a whole two shelves just for his records and god help you if you touched them without asking...  
  
But if you “pulled up the Googles” (Steve’s words) to look up “eclectic hipster apartment on a budget,” their home would have popped up first. It was a Pinterest addict’s wet dream. It would get dozens of “OMG GOALS” comments on Instagram. It was cozy, it was nicely furnished, and it perfectly reflected the three occupants.  
  
And then  _some_ one (Bucky. It was Bucky.) left the goddamn window open when all three of them were out on separate missions for a few weeks.  
  


* * *

Sam got back first; his missions had been Stateside; something about the changing of the seasons really brought out the weirdo costumed villains. Sam had just fought an embarrassingly short battle against “Leaf-al Weapon,” and aside from general bruising, he’d have to contend with the inevitable YouTube videos of him getting dozens of pinecones fired at him. He’d already gotten messages from Steve and Bucky; Steve would be back that night, Bucky, tomorrow. He’d at least have a good few hours to shower, nap, maybe even finally break open the nice whiskey Director Fury had given him for his last birthday...   
  
The first thing that Sam noticed was that the rain had blown in through the open living room window. The second, was that the place smelled really  _weird_ , kinda... fishy? Sam eased his heavy wing pack off his shoulder and heaved a huge sigh before moving over to the window and sliding it partially shut. So much for relaxing -- he spent 20 minutes mopping up the water and praying it wouldn’t fuck up the hardwood too much. He snapped a picture of the mop leaning forlornly against the wall next to the window, sending it in a text to Bucky with the message “ _Thanks, man.”_  
  
Okay, maybe skip the shower and go right to the nap part of his plan.  
  
When Sam pushed approached his open room door, he reeled back a little. It smelled like... tuna?  _What the hell?_  He barely had time to wonder if something had happened to his emergency rations before he got his answer. A pair of eyes glinted in the darkness near the floor, and Sam steeled himself for fighting an angry raccoon (because that was what his life was like nowadays) when a  _mew_  pulled him up short. A cat? A cat wasn’t necessarily less dangerous than a raccoon if it was feral and scared, but... Sam  _liked_  cats. Sure, he was the Falcon, but he appreciated the way that cats liked you on  _their_  terms. He could dig it.   
  
He cautiously flicked on the light and blinked at the intruder. It was  _small_ , just a kitten, really. Its coat was grey as the sky outside, the iconic ‘M’ of a tabby on its little forehead.   
  
“Hey, little dude,” Sam said softly. The cat looked away and lifted a leg to clean itself with gusto. “Ah. Not a dude,” Sam amended. He moved slowly, but all the same the cat hunched defensively, its ears flattened. Sam stopped by the closet, not moving any closer to the small animal, and checked the cardboard box in the corner-- ah. Sam had an emergency food stash (they all did; old habits died hard,) and one of the things he always had was vacuum-sealed packages of tuna. It seemed the clever little thing had found it and chewed through the packaging to get to the food inside. That explained what it’d been eating, anyway... but...  
  
“You been poopin’ in here, cat?” Sam asked, turning to look at his companion. She’d edged away from him, but was no longer scared-looking, merely blinking at him now. Sam was pretty sure from his experience with his sister’s pets that if the cat had been relieving herself in his room, he’d’ve known immediately. That stuff  _stank_.   
  
Just in case, he checked his room, telegraphing his movements so as to not frighten the cat-- but she seemed to have forgotten about her nerves pretty quickly, because she hopped nimbly onto the bed and just watched him.   
“Ooookay, well... you’re weird. Dunno what else I expected,” Sam muttered. After a moment’s thought, he pulled out his phone.   
  
**Human foods for cats**  
  
Sam grimaced as he scanned the results; seemed like most things in the house wasn’t great for cats, especially kittens. Not even cow’s milk was great for them! Sam felt lied to by all those Saturday morning cartoons. He was halfway to Googling “nearby pet stores” when he paused. He should be looking for animal shelters, not a place to buy cat food and cat toys. The object of his deliberations was now sitting loaf-style on his duvet, watching with half-closed eyes. Her tail flicked now and then to show her interest, but otherwise she seemed relaxed.   
  
Dammit, she was  _cute_ , big golden-green eyes and a pink little nose. Dammit  _dammit_.   
  
“Stormy,” he murmured, slowly extending his hand for her to smell. He was rewarded with a tentative sniff, which he took to mean she approved of the name.   
  
There was one little problem: their apartment building had a strict no-pets rule. Sam muttered under his breath as he found a soft old sweatshirt, carefully arranging it into a little bed for Stormy.   
“Okay, girl... you can sleep here for tonight and tomorrow we gotta find somewhere for you to--” He was interrupted by her looking away from where he was gesturing, putting her chin on her front paws, and closing her eyes.   
  
The cat had gone to sleep in the middle of his sentence. In the middle of his bed.   
  
“No,” Sam said firmly, crossing his arms. The cat didn’t even stir.   
“No, you can’t sleep on the bed.  _No_. I’m not getting cat hair on my sheets.”  
  
Stormy’s response was to put a paw over her face. Sam felt his shoulders sag; he was tired, he wanted a nap before the whirlwind of energy that was Steve Rogers got home, and this cat had the audacity to be in his bed being adorable. Not okay.   
  
“Okay. You can sleep in here, but you. Are. Not. Sleeping. On. My. Bed.”  
  
\---  
  
“Sam? Sam, I--  _oh_.” Steve poked his head into the room through the half-open door and stilled, a fond smile softening his features. Sam was curled up on his side with his back to the doorway, snoring softly. He must have been really tired to have slept through the jingling keys and heavy footsteps that had announced Steve’s arrival.   
  
Steve carefully backed out of the room, closing the door most of the way so that the hallway light wouldn’t bother Sam. Sam didn’t stir, but unnoticed by Steve, a small form slipped from the protective cocoon that Sam had inadvertently formed around her, crept to the edge of the bed and nimbly leapt to the floor.  
  
When Sam woke with a start in the early hours of the morning, the little cat was nowhere to be found. He felt surprisingly disappointed; he’d been half-dreaming of jingly cat toys, purring and soft little paws.   
  
After a quick but thorough check, Sam had to admit to himself that she’d probably slipped back out through the open living room window, off to wherever her real home was.   
  
He’d planned to get her a little collar and everything.  _Dammit._ The expression on his face as he settled back into bed was pretty close to a sulk. 

* * *

  
“Mornin’,” Sam yawned hours later, shuffling into the kitchen. Steve, who was frowning at a food package of some kind, looked up with a smile.   
  
“Sam! You’re up. I thought you might miss the whole day, you were sleeping so late.”  
  
“It’s 8:30, Steve.”  
  
“I know; I’ve been up for 3 hours already.”  
  
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Sam said dryly, leaning in to kiss the side of Steve’s head. “Way back in the 1960s, they invented this thing called ‘sleeping in,’ it’s a real damn shame you never got to try it.”  
  
“Wiseguy.”  
  
“One of us has to be, Cap. What you got there?” the last question was regarding the large canvas tote at Steve’s feet. Steve glanced down, a strange look of alarm passing over his features before he could school them.   
  
“I got these... uh... hhhhealth snacks. They’re healthy... and you can eat them and-- they’re good!” Steve tore open the package in his hand and popped a few dark green biscuits into his mouth. Sam watched as Steve flinched, grimaced, and chewed like a man eating sawdust.   
  
“Looks... tasty,” Sam deadpanned. Steve nodded, entirely unconvincingly.   
  
“They’re good! And really healthy.”  
  
“Tell me one thing, though--”  
  
Steve looked strangely alarmed again. “Yeah?”  
  
“Are they  _healthy_ , though? You’ve only mentioned it 5 times, I think.”  
  
“Oh, ha ha, Wilson.”  
  
“And anyway, I was asking about all of  _that_  stuff,” Sam continued, gesturing again at the shopping bag. Steve bit his lip and shrugged his shoulders in a would-be casual way.   
  
“Oh. I uh--”  
  
“Is that...  _rice?”_  Sam asked, moving towards the bag. Steve gratefully seized on the assumption, touching Sam’s arm to get his attention.   
  
“Yeah, yes!  _Yes._  Rice! I’m... bringing rice... to the potluck this weekend.”  
  
“Rice.”  
  
“Yep!”  
  
“A bag of rice?”  
  
“Ye-- no. No, of course not. I’m... going to watch the YouTune to find recipes?”  
  
“Are you asking or telling me, man?” Sam teased gently. He knew Steve was a little bit embarrassed about his horrible cooking skills-- especially since Sam and Bucky could  _throw down_  in the kitchen.   
  
“I’m gonna cook a rice dish. For the potluck.”  
  
“Okay, baby. I mean... we got plenty of rice here--”  
  
“This is  _special_  rice.”  
  
“O...kay. And that?” Sam asked, gesturing to the large boxy shape straining the seams of the bag. “Is that a--”  
  
“ _Shelving unit!”_ Steve almost shouted. “It’s. A little bookcase. Got it on sale!”

“Yeah, you’re always saying you need more space for your books,” Sam agreed, smiling fondly.  
  
“Sure am. I’m gonna... watch YouTune--”  
  
“You _Tube_.”  
  
“YouTube, yes. I’m gonna watch some... in my room. With the door closed. I need to focus. For the recipe.”  
  
“Steve, you don’t have to make up some story if you just want some alone time to jerk off, man. We’re all adults here.”  
  
“Wh-- I’m not! Not right now! I’m really gonna--”  
  
“Mhm. Okay, whatever weirdo stuff you’re doing, have fun.” Sam leaned up to kiss Steve on the mouth, and then made a face.   
“Those health snacks taste  _rank_ , man.”  
  
Sam could have sworn he heard a weird jingling noise as Steve walked away with the bag.  
  
\---  
  
“Sammy,” Bucky groaned, slumping his considerable body weight on Sam’s shoulder. Sam absent-mindedly pat the top of Bucky’s head,  _hmmm?_ ing in response. “I missed you.”  
  
“You also missed like 10 showers, Barnes. Jesus.”  
  
“I was travelling for a week! No time for luxury.”  
  
“Basic hygiene? Not a luxury.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll shower after you hug me.”  
  
“Ohhh, no. Ohhhh no no no no no.”  
  
“Take one for the team, Sammy. I been  _starved for affection_  and all.”  
  
“You were only gone for a month,” Sam grumbled even as he got to his feet and held his arms out to Bucky.  
  
“I was gone for a  _whole month_ ,” Bucky sighed, sinking into Sam’s embrace and breathing him in (Sam was subtly trying  _not_  to breathe Bucky in.)   
  
“Okay, I feel better. Thanks, Sammy. I... I really did miss you.”  
  
“I-missed-you-too-now-shut-up-and-go-shower.”   
  
Instead, Bucky made a big show of kissing Sam’s neck and jawline, being as noisy as possible while Sam pretended to hate every second.   
“Now that I’ve marked you with my scent--”  
  
“Aw,  _nasty.”  
_  
“--gonna go see how Blondie’s doing.”  
  
“Mmm, I wouldn’t,” Sam said thoughtfully. Bucky’s eyebrows crept up.   
  
“Why?”  
  
“Steve’s acting weird.”  
  
“... gonna have to narrow that one down a little.”  
  
“Weirder than usual. I think he wants a little alone time or somethin’.”  
  
“Oh. Well-- yeah, okay. I’ll go shower and... you can make me a late breakfast?”  
  
“Try again.”  
  
“I’ll go shower and we’ll make breakfast together?”  
  
“Ding ding ding.”

* * *

Steve heaved a huge sigh and then made a face as he smelled his own breath. He’d gotten so caught up in reading the ingredients on the bag of cat treats that he’d had to eat the damn things to hide them from Sam. They were  _disgusting_ , and even though Steve had frantically rinsed out his mouth in the washroom, the taste lingered.   
  
“The things I do for you,” he smiled gently down at the small grey cat curled up on his desk. The kitten, which he’d named ‘Slate’ because of her grey coat, raised her head and watched inquisitively as Steve set out the litter box he’d just bought. She sat all the way up when he hefted the small bag of litter (that he’d claimed was rice to throw Sam off) and filled the box, and before Steve had even finished taping the bag shut, she had trotted over to the litter box --  
  
“Oh,  _wow_ ,” Steve winced, covering his nose.  _Such a small animal shouldn’t be able to make such a stink_ , he thought wryly as he slid his window open a little to air out the room.  
  
Slate finished her business, kicked litter over it (Steve was relieved) and then became intensely interested in attacking Steve’s shoelaces as he tried to untie his sneakers. He found himself immensely charmed (even though her tiny claws were  _really_  sharp.) He’d never thought himself to be a cat person, but she was rambunctious and clearly unafraid despite her small size. He could relate to that.   
  
Listening to her ridiculous  _mmnyam nyam nyam nyam_  sounds as she wolfed down kitten food from a bowl Steve had pilfered from their kitchen just made him even more sure. He’d have to find a way to convince the other two to let him keep her.  
  
\---  
  
Bucky rapped loudly on the door, still towelling his hair from his shower.   
“Steve? Hey, Sam says you’re jerkin’ it to some cooking videos or something--”  
  
_“What?! I’m not!”_  
  
“--but I’m lettin’ you know I’m back. You coming out soon?”  
  
Bucky heard a lot of shuffling and a very quiet “ _Shhh_  sh sh sh, be good” and ... decided he didn’t want to know. He was tired and wanted to  ~~play grabass~~  have a nice breakfast with his guys. Whatever weird shit Steve was getting up to could wait.   
“C’mon, Steve... Sam said he’d make his blueberry pancakes.”  
Sam didn’t have super hearing, but he still made a sound of protest from the living room, and Bucky corrected himself again.  
“Sam said I could help him make blueberry pancakes.”  
  
Bucky shrugged and was about to turn away from the door when it finally opened a crack, letting out the overwhelming smell of Steve’s scented candle. Steve was wearing a hoodie, which wouldn’t have been unusual except for the fact that it was the middle of summer and the man almost melted into the floorboards if the temperature crept above 30 degrees. He had his hands stuffed into the pouch pocket, looking shifty.   
  
Bucky only took another moment to decide not to ask, yet again. He just wanted pancakes.   
  
Sam, on the other hand, paused in the act of washing blueberries.   
“Why the hell are you wearing a hoodie, Steve?” he asked. Steve was already sweating a little and his whole posture screamed  _I’m hiding something oh god please don’t notice_.   
“You feeling okay?” he continued, a thread of concern in his voice now. Bucky raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, knowing the signs when he saw it. Steve had probably gotten a bad tattoo or something, and was waiting for it to fade before the other two saw it. (It wouldn’t have been the first time, sadly.)  
  
“Yeah, just a little chilly,” Steve said, entirely unconvincingly. Bucky turned a flat look upon him then, crossing his arms.   
  
“You’re chilly, Steve.”  
  
“A little.”  
  
“It’s August.”  
  
“Sure is! Autumn’s around the corner.”  
  
“You’re sweating.”  
  
“Because I’m warm now. In the hoodie.”  
  
“You think I was defrosted yesterday, Rogers?”  
  
“ _Je_ sus, Buck.”  
  
“What’re you hiding, Steve?”  
  
“Yeah, man. You’re fooling exactly  _no_  one here,” Sam interjected. His Single Unimpressed Eyebrow Raise couldn’t be beat, and Steve felt the sudden urge to blurt the truth-- partially spurred on by the fact that Slate, hidden in his hoodie, had just nipped hard at his fingers. She wasn’t happy being bundled up like that, but Steve didn’t trust her alone in his room. There were too many electrical cords to chew, too much paint to get into, too many irreplaceable objects to knock off of tables and break.  
  
“What’s with the third degree, guys?” Steve asked, scowling a little.   
  
“Okay, fair. If you wanna act like a weirdo, that’s your right,” Sam said reasonably.   
Steve was in the middle of agreeing when Sam continued: “But you’re on pancake duty now.”  
  
Steve slowly took his hands out of his oddly bulgy pocket and began shuffling over to Sam. Slate, no longer being gently held in place, immediately started squirming; but luckily Bucky was too busy getting the rest of the ingredients to notice, and Sam was measuring out buttermilk with intense concentration.   
“You okay, Steve? Really?” he murmured. Steve opened his mouth to say ‘Of course--’  
  
Unseen to the other two men, Slate leapt out of Steve’s pocket and darted down the hallway--  
  
Steve whirled and tried to catch her--  
  
\-- and the bag of flour he’d been sifting into the bowl flew into the air, coating almost everything in a fine white powder. Sam, looking oddly artistic with his long eyelashes now dusted a stark white, slowly lowered his measuring cup and just. Looked at Steve.   
“I’m going back to bed,” he said calmly. “Because this has to be a nightmare.”  
  
“Steve, what the hell was that?” Bucky asked rather less calmly. He’d  _just_  washed his freakin’ hair!  
  
“Shit-- I’m sorry, guys. I’ll clean it all up, I promise.”  
  
“That much is obvious,” Sam said, using his hands to fluff flour from his hair. Bucky grinned at him.   
  
“You finally look your age, Wilson.”  
As Sam puffed up like an angry cat, Steve quickly scanned the floor for Slate. He saw a clear set of little pawprints in the flour and he hastily used his foot to scuff them, not wanting her presence to be detected.   
  
In the end, the three of them cleaned up the kitchen together, and Steve finally stopped being weird, peeling off his hoodie. Sam declared that shirtless sweaty Steve Rogers was grounds for  _partial_  forgiveness for the flour incident. Bucky kept getting distracted; he could have sworn he kept hearing the faintest patter of small footsteps on the wooden floors down the hall.   
  
Steve spent the rest of the evening peering under the couch and in corners, giving entirely unconvincing answers as to what he was searching for.   
  


* * *

  
Bucky’s eyes shot open and he took a second to remember where he was-- not draped heavily over Sam and Steve in one of their rooms, but alone in his bed. He usually slept alone for the first few nights after returning from mission; as much as he wanted nothing more than to be with the others, post-mission nights also meant nightmares, which meant staying away from the last people he’d want to hurt in a dream-induced panic. It fucking sucked.   
  
But he’d woken up for a reason. He’d had some of Sam’s mama’s special tea to knock himself into a semi-peaceful sleep, so...  
  
_Someone’s here._  
  
He felt his heart rate kick into high gear, his muscles already tensing for a fight. His gleaming metal fingers inched under his pillow, where he kept a large hunting knife, and--  
  
Something small leapt onto the bed and immediately bit his toe. He just barely kept himself from kicking out in terror, realizing quickly that... it was a cat. A kitten, really, small and dark in the dim light from the outside street lamps.  _What the fuck?_  Bucky let go of his knife and willed himself to calm down; unless Hydra had  _really_  changed their tactics recently, he doubted the cat was here to kill him.   
  
He cautiously moved his foot away from the playful (and  _sharp_ ) kitten, sitting up in bed to get a better look by flicking on the bedside lamp. It wasn’t very large, but it didn’t seem to know that; it was already crouched for another ‘attack,’ its little tail swishing back and forth restlessly. It seemed to be grey, with dark swirling marks all over its body. It was... kind of cute, actually.   
“How the hell’d you get in here?” Bucky muttered, feeling the smallest smile tugging at his lips. He’d always liked cats, had wanted to adopt one-- but he assumed the other two weren’t keen on them; plus, their building had a strict no-pets rule.  
  
Bucky was watching Little Grey (he wasn’t the most poetic guy, sue him) prepare to attack his metal hand and hid it under his blanket, thinking that it probably wasn’t great for little kitten teeth. Or any teeth, for that matter. He offered his flesh hand instead, cautiously extending it to her for her to smell. She didn’t hesitate before pouncing on it, all energy and an excess of bravery. She kinda reminded Bucky of Steve and Sam, although Sam would vehemently deny being reckless.  
  
Yeah, right.   
  
Soon enough, Little Grey fell asleep with her tiny head cradled in Bucky’s hand, and the idea that something so small and helpless trusted  _him_  ... it was almost too much. He watched her little paws twitch as she dreamed, and even when he fell asleep he didn’t move an inch. He didn’t want to wake her.  
  
\---   
  
Bucky was spared wondering how he was going to feed the cat in the morning without alerting the others to her presence; the moment Bucky woke, he saw that she was sitting on the edge of the bed watching him. Waiting silently. Kind of creepy, actually.   
  
Maybe the cat was more like  _him_ , after all.   
  
Little Grey jumped nimbly to the floor, trotted over to the door, and let out an impatient  _mew._    
“Shhh sh sh sh,” Bucky shushed her. He paused. He’d heard Steve make a similar plea yesterday when he was locked in his room, hadn’t he?  
  
The moment Bucky opened the door a crack, the kitten darted into the hallway. He... didn’t know what he’d expected, actually. He almost slipped on the wooden floor; his socked feet didn’t offer much traction as he tried to shuffle after Little Grey.   
  
But it was too late.  
  
She’d disappeared into Sam’s room, having taken advantage of the partially open door. Bucky bit his lip and tried to make a hasty plan to scoop her out of there without waking Sam up. It shouldn’t be difficult; Wilson was a fairly heavy sleeper most of the time. If Little Grey could just keep quiet...  
  
Of course, she chose that moment to really let loose with a loud  _myaaaah_  that Bucky could hear clearly even from the hallway. And then two more loud, high-pitched mews followed.   
  
He sighed and inched forward, already steeling himself to explain her presence.   
“Stormy! Hey, you little thing, where’d you get off to, huh? Had me worried.” Sam’s voice rasped from the room, still hoarse with sleep.   
  
Well,  _that_  was unexpected.   
  
Bucky pushed open the door to discover Steve and Sam still tangled in the sheets, yawning and barely awake.   
  
“--her name’s  _Slate,_ ” Steve was correcting Sam. Sam scoffed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand while scooping up the noisy kitten with the other.   
  
“ _This_  is what you were hiding yesterday, Steve? Stormy?”  
  
“If by ‘Stormy’ you mean ‘Slate,’ then... yes.”  
  
Bucky entered the room fully, making the other two look up in varying levels of alarm.   
  
“I can explain,” Steve started.  
  
“ _You_  left the window open, and I couldn’t kick her out--!” Sam protested. Bucky just shook his head and shuffled over to join them in Sam’s bed.   
  
“Her name’s Little Grey,” he said without further explanation. Steve made a face.   
  
“What happens when she gets bigger? ‘Little’ isn’t going to make sense...”  
  
“And what, ‘Slate’ is better?” Sam snorted. “What is she, nail polish?”  
  
The kitten was already playing, chewing on the string of Sam’s hoodie. He wasn’t even pretending to be mad about it, just watching her with a dopey smile. Steve gestured subtly to his phone on the nightstand, and Bucky picked it up and slipped it into Steve’s waiting hand.   
  
Sam didn’t even notice them taking pictures of him cuddling and cooing at  ~~Stormy~~   ~~Slate~~   ~~Little Grey~~  the kitten.  
“Okay, so. She played us,” Sam murmured. “Smart girl.” He looked up at the other two, and, seeing the pleading expression on Steve’s face, handed her over to the blond. She immediately started climbing his shirt, using her sharp little claws, but Steve barely flinched.  
  
“So... what now? Bucky asked.  
  
“Landlord won’t let us keep her,” Sam muttered.  
  
“We just moved here; we’ve got, what, 8 months left on the lease?” Steve sighed, hitching one shoulder higher so that the kitten wouldn’t tumble off.  
  
“She can be adopted out real easy, she’s cute...” Bucky offered without any real enthusiasm. There was a long pause.   
  
“I mean... we can Internet search pet-friendly apartments, right?” Steve said moments later.   
  
“Would be easy,” Bucky agreed. They both turned to look at Sam, who was chewing his lower lip and frowning.   
  
“Okay, but one thing. If we’re breaking our lease, and packing up our whole life  _again_  for this little cat...”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I get to name her Stormy.”


End file.
